Heroes Every Child Should Know eBook

A BOY’S IMPRESSIONS

The first vivid recollection I have of my father is
his arrival in Arlington, after his return from the
Mexican War. I can remember some events of which
he seemed a part, when we lived at Fort Hamilton,
New York, about 1846, but they are more like dreams,
very indistinct and disconnected—­naturally
so, for I was at that time about three years old.
But the day of his return to Arlington, after an absence
of more than two years, I have always remembered.
I had a frock or blouse of some light wash material,
probably cotton, a blue ground dotted over with white
diamond figures. Of this I was very proud, and
wanted to wear it on this important occasion.
Eliza, my “mammy,” objecting, we had a
contest and I won. Clothed in this, my very best,
and with my hair freshly curled in long golden ringlets,
I went down into the large hall where the whole household
was assembled, eagerly greeting my father, who had
just arrived on horseback from Washington, having
missed in some way the carriage which had been sent
for him.

There was visiting us at this time Mrs. Lippitt, a
friend of my mother’s, with her little boy,
Armistead, about my age and size, also with long curls.
Whether he wore as handsome a suit as mine I cannot
remember, but he and I were left together in the background,
feeling rather frightened and awed. After a moment’s
greeting to those surrounding him, my father pushed
through the crowd, exclaiming:

“Where is my little boy?”

He then took up in his arms and kissed—­not
me his own child, in his best frock with clean face
and well-arranged curls—­but my little playmate,
Armistead. I remember nothing more of any circumstances
connected with that time, save that I was shocked and
humiliated. I have no doubt that he was at once
informed of his mistake and made ample amends to me.

A letter from my father to his brother, Captain S.
S. Lee, United States Navy, dated “Arlington,
June 30, 1848,” tells of his coming home:

“Here I am once again, my dear Smith, perfectly
surrounded by Mary and her precious children, who
seem to devote themselves to staring at the furrows
in my face and the white hairs in my head. It
is not surprising that I am hardly recognisable to
some of the young eyes around me and perfectly unknown
to the youngest. But some of the older ones gaze
with astonishment and wonder at me, and seem at a
loss to reconcile what they see and what was pictured
in their imaginations. I find them, too, much
grown, and all well, and I have much cause for thankfulness,
and gratitude to that good God who has once more united
us.”